I want to talk to you about my relationship with bathrooms.
Before you click away from this page with your nose high, thinking “I don’t need to hear about poop, thankyouverymuch”, let me assure you this post has nothing to do with bodily functions. At least that’s not the plan… I can’t make any guarantees.
If you’re my sister or my parents, the content of this post will come as no surprise to you. I should mention, however, if you are my parents, please stop reading this blog and pretend you never found it. Your daughter is a sweet, innocent girl who hardly ever calls people motherfuckers. I promise. Probably.
Now back to bathrooms…
I grew up in an old house in
Ottawa, with my mom, my dad and my older
sister. That’s right, y’all, I’m the baby of the house. I’ll be the first to
admit I was a temperamental little bitch of a child, and I had no problem
letting people know exactly how I felt. About everything. All the time. I know it’s pretty hard to imagine me as an
outspoken little twat, but try and use your imagination.
When I reflect on my childhood ‘traumas’ two things come to mind. 1) I was very prone to getting the wind knocked out of me. 2) I was very prone to making shit hit the fan and losing my cool.
Let me clarify that the first of those two things is not related to some sort of health problem. I liked to roughhouse. A lot. And more often than not ended up rolling around on the floor, gasping, as my lungs tried to recover from the sudden shock of my body slamming against the ground. It’s important to note that more often than not, I caused the fall on my own. I think it goes without saying that I was a pretty cool fucking kid.
Now let’s talk about the second item on that list. That’s right, ladies and gents, my childhood is rich in shit-covered ceiling fans*. Every child deals with stress and anger differently. Some kids throw stuff. Some kids break shit. Some kids punch people. Some kids throw feces. I, however, would lock myself in the bathroom. Every. Fucking. Time. I didn’t do this in a peaceful manner, I did this in the most bratty, slap-worthy manner possible. The door would need to be slammed at least two solid times, depending on how close the adult was on my trail. Rest assured I would also scream a lot, but only from behind the safe solace of a locked door coupled with a hefty supply of toilet paper to soak up the tears. To this day I can’t scream without crying. If I’m furious, I will weep like a little bitch. It’s just the way I’m wired, and it’s just what’s going to happen if I yell at you. Don’t be fooled by the tears. I will fucking cut you if I have to. But, you know, remorsefully.
*Not literally. Sweet jesus!
I couldn’t tell you how many times I ended up in a screaming fit with the back of the bathroom door. I’m pretty sure if I went to my parent’s basement bathroom, I’d find dents in the wall from my pounding fists/face. The problem started at a young age. I can recall my babysitter missing an exam because yours truly was a jumbo piece of shit and decided a temper tantrum was more important than a future. Let’s not talk about what that babysitter is doing now.
My personal favourite bathroom incident took place in a hospital. Let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, I was a jolly young tot who found a tree full of caterpillars. It was the best fucking day ever. The caterpillars lit up my world. So much so, that I got a plastic bowl and filled it with them. Then I proceeded to run the short block home, yelling bloody murder for my mother’s attention so she could witness my earth-shattering, delightful discovery.
The show and tell didn’t go quite as planned.
I fell. Hard.
I don’t even want to think about the caterpillar genocide that took place that afternoon.
With my mom standing at the edge of the porch, she saw her possibly-mentally-challenged daughter wipe out on the curb with a bowl full of caterpillars. Unluckily for me, there also happened to be broken glass and pebbles present at the scene of the crime. These things ended up in my knee.
Screaming and bleeding, I was rushed to the hospital. Once I finally got to see a doctor, they decided they would not be putting me asleep to remove the clutter from my knee. What does an injured, traumatized child with a knee full of pebbles and glass do? Make a b-line for the bathroom of course! Using my advanced conversational skills, I informed the doctor that I needed to pee. I got up and began to saunter to the handicapped bathroom. A light bulb in my mom’s head went off and she quickly began to follow me. The woman knew I was heading for the only bathroom I could lock. My injured leg did not hold me back. I got in there and locked the door. SWEET VICTORY.
My stay in that bathroom is a little bit foggy. I may have been losing blood, but I cannot be certain. I can recall a team of people outside of the door, trying to coerce me to come out. If memory serves, I indulged in a can of grape soda and a cookie after they fixed up my knee, so it’s probably safe to assume I was bribed.
Side note: You can no longer bribe me with grape soda and a cookie. Liquor, however, is another story.
Needless to say, locking yourself in a bathroom accomplishes very little, but man can it be a fun time. For years, I could have probably listed all of the ingredients in the shampoo and told you exactly how many bandaids were left in the medicine cabinet, but I don’t mean to brag.
I’m proud to say that I no longer lock myself in bathrooms. On an unrelated note, I do have to look behind the shower curtain every time I pee. Oh look, a bodily function reference. Like I said, no guarantees.
Did you have any special childhood hideouts when you got in trouble?